


That's Just Mean

by NotASpaceAlien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is the victim of a prank by another demon that goes a bit too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Just Mean

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/148714997165/can-you-write-a-fic-about-crowley-thinking

All demons are naturally pranksters; however, some take it further than others.

Crowley, for example, only engaged in what could properly be called “mischief.”  Gluing coins to the sidewalk and retreating to a nearby bench to watch events was typical of his behavior.  His favorite prank to play on Aziraphale was to go into the angel’s kitchenette when he wasn’t looking and arrange all his Tupperware precariously against the cabinet door, so that when Aziraphale opened it to store some leftovers they all cascaded out onto him like something from an infomercial trying to sell convenient stacking containers.  Aziraphale knew it was Crowley who had been doing this, but he had never been able to prove it, and Crowley always denied it.

However, other demons are not quite as benign as Crowley, and they tend to pull the types of pranks at which humans usually shake their heads and go “That’s not funny, that’s just mean.”*  Usually they like pranking humans, but other demons are a more difficult target and they will often try it for the challenge.

* * *

*These types of pranks are also sometimes called “social experiments,” and have been increasingly put up on YouTube, where everyone marvels at the inability of someone who has been physically assaulted or emotionally wounded to take a joke.

* * *

One such demon set their eyes on Crowley after the events of the Apocalypse. Noting how much distress he had displayed at the thought of Aziraphale being discorporated, they thought Crowley could give them a good laugh with the right prompting.

The first thing they did was steal Aziraphale’s cell phone.  Then, they forged an urgent correspondence calling Aziraphale to America. Upon receiving it, Aziraphale hastily made his way across the ocean, not noticing his phone was gone until he patted his empty pocket on the plane and frowned.  The demon then replaced Aziraphale’s “Will return in a month” note on the front door with a “For Sale” sign.

Finally, the demon found a very large goose with feathers the same color as Aziraphale’s.

* * *

“What’s this?” said Crowley to himself upon noting the letter on his doormat.  He picked it up, took it inside, and opened it.

His hands started to shake on the parchment of the letter.  A large soft grey feather, covered in blood, flitted out of the envelope and drifted to the floor.

“No,” he cried.  “That can’t be true.   _No._ ”

He called Aziraphale’s cell phone, but he got an unfamiliar voice saying they had just gotten this phone and who was this?  He called Aziraphale’s shop phone, but it rang and went to voicemail each time he tried it.

Finally, panic sinking in, he got in the Bentley and drove to the shop.

“No,” he said upon seeing the sign on the front door.  He banged his head against the glass and peered inside dejectedly, his heart sinking.

Finally, he got back in the Bentley and drove home, already well into a bottle of wine, not even bothering to admire his ingenuity for breaking the law at every opportunity.

* * *

Crowley spent the first few days moping around his flat.  He did not even have the heart to threaten his plants to make himself feel better.  He put on an action film from his DVD collection, but could only think of how he had dragged Aziraphale to the theater to see it when it had originally come out.  He went into his kitchen, but stayed away from it after he could only picture the angel giving a little scream as a landslide of Tupperware fell on his head. He went into the bedroom, but—

Best to not go there at all.

He left his flat, then, but everything reminded him of Aziraphale. He hated it.  He told himself he didn’t need Aziraphale, and whatever angel Heaven sent down to replace him would surely be just as irritating, and Crowley could pick up right where he left off.  He couldn’t get himself to believe it.

Every bookshop he passed, he expected to see Aziraphale inside it. Every time he saw someone eating some food the angel liked, he thought of him.  Every time someone was drinking tea, he thought of the angel taking the whistling kettle off his stove and pouring the steaming water into a cup for him.**

* * *

**This was obviously a problem, with London’s rate of tea consumption.

* * *

“Have a good day, sir,” said a shopkeeper to him.

“ _He_ used to tell me to have a good day,” said Crowley, bursting into tears and running out.

Eventually he decided he couldn’t take it anymore, and he’d just have to leave London.  No, not just London; he’d have to get out of Great Britain, maybe even Europe altogether.  Go west, maybe.  Perhaps he’d live as a snake for a while, eating whatever animals happened to bungle into him and sitting in some tree all day with his thoughts.  He’d heard the tropical rainforests in South America were nice this time of year.

He went through the objects in his flat one by one, but for each one he was able to conjure up some memory of Aziraphale that would make it painful to hold onto.  All the appliances in his kitchen he had only used when Aziraphale was over.  The TV? He had convinced Aziraphale to watch a movie on it once.  The couch?  They had drunk wine on it.  Those knickknacks on the shelf?  Aziraphale had commented on how dreadful they were.

He sat down at his desk and flipped open his laptop, going through his documents.

No, nothing in there he’d need to take with him.

It’d be better to just leave it all here and start over, he decided.  He ripped the front door open and turned back for one last look.

The potted plants trembled on the windowsill, afraid of their master, but knowing that his absence would mean a brown and wilted end for them.

Crowley hesitated, then hurried back in, plucked a single succulent off the shelf, and went out.

He couldn’t leave the Bentley, not after she had been so faithful to him.  He _couldn’t_.  He slid his hands on the steering wheel as he entered the driver’s seat, putting the plant next to him.  The car started with a gesture, and the radio blared to life.

“ _Oohh, you’re my best friend…”_

Crowley sprang from the car like a wounded animal, ripped his wings out, and shot into the sky.

* * *

Aziraphale huffed with annoyance as he finally came upon the door of the bookshop, slamming it open, glaring at everything and stomping about. He had just wasted all that time in America; when he finally managed to track down the contact who had given him such an urgent summons, he found they hadn’t even been the one to send the message. And then someone had put a FOR SALE sign on his bookshop!  Something was definitely going on, and whatever it was, it was _very_ annoying.

He dropped his bags next to the desk, then noticed the blinking red light on the shop phone.  He had gotten an irritating amount of voicemail while he was away.

The first ten messages were all from customers asking about books they had ordered.  He did what he would have done had he been around, and deleted them.  The eleventh message…

“Angel, this is Crowley, please call me back as soon as you get this, all right?”

Brief.  Aziraphale would call him back later.

Twelfth message:

“Aziraphale, it’s me again. I’m not worried or anything, I’m just not sure where you are.  Please give me a call ASAP.  It’s important.”

Oh, dear.  Aziraphale really should have stopped and used someone else’s phone to let Crowley know where he had gone.  He hadn’t thought it was that important, and his own phone had been mysteriously mislaid.  He didn’t know the demon would miss him so urgently.  

Thirteenth message:

“Angel,” and this time Crowley’s voice sounded like he was holding back sobs.  “Please, I know you’re not dead.  You can’t be dead.  Please call me back.”

Aziraphale immediately picked up the phone and dialed Crowley’s number, but it gave him a message that the number had been disconnected.

“Blast,” said Aziraphale, hanging the phone back up and playing the last voicemail:

“Mister Aziraphale? Hi, my name’s Tanya.  I’m the landlord of the flat Mr. Crowley rents, and….well, nobody’s seen him around in a while and we started to get a bit worried.  He had given you as his emergency contact, so figured we’d best call you…  Give me a buzz if you hear from him, all right?  He’s usually not away this long without having someone come in to water his plants.”

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale, sighing, knowing generally what had happened.  What he did not know was how he could locate his demon, because he could be anywhere in the world by now.

* * *

Aziraphale was relieved that he didn’t have to try and break into Crowley’s flat, because his neighbor Tanya gave him the keys when he introduced himself.  The Bentley had still been outside, which troubled Aziraphale because he couldn’t imagine the demon leaving it behind.  Everything appeared in order in his flat, if a bit dusty. Aziraphale poked in every crevice imaginable, but found nothing.  The papers and notes on his desk were unhelpful.  He flipped Crowley’s computer open, but the password page blinked at him demandingly. 

Aziraphale knew Crowley, who always loved to be melodramatic, and knew his password.  The computer admitted him when he typed _4004._  Nothing helpful there either, although he did find a _very_ interesting file inside a folder labeled “Porn,” which contained just the one document, which he tried to forget about unsuccessfully.

He shut the computer and went to the bedroom.  Granted he wasn’t intimately familiar with Crowley’s wardrobe, but it didn’t appear as though he had packed anything for wherever he went.  Aziraphale pictured him getting upset and running off with only the clothes on his back.  That was something he would do.  Aziraphale tried not to roll his eyes, but he _was_ worried.  Time for plan B.

* * *

Everyone is familiar with the lore of hellhounds.  What most people may not have ever thought about, however, is whether hellhounds have any celestial counterparts.  They do, as a matter of fact.  Heavenhounds generally have a better temper, although it’s still discouraged from petting them the same way one shouldn’t pet service dogs.

There was one such dog, big and fluffed with curly hair and all gentle angles and soft ears, sitting at the feet of a man in a yellow mackintosh and rubber boots in the back of the bar. The man lifted his hat off his face with a thumb as a familiar figure entered the bar.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Aziraphale?  That you?”

“Hello, Ezekiel,” said Aziraphale.  Aziraphale looked the other angel up and down, noted the way he was dressed, and said, “Going for a bit of fishing later, are we?”

Ezekiel laughed, and the dog gave a throaty _boof_ to match it.  “Now I know the principality Aziraphale wouldn’t have come looking for lil’ ol’ me just to make small talk.”  He downed the rest of his glass.  “Aziraphale doesn’t call on anyone else unless he has something to ask for, isn’t that right?”

Aziraphale colored, about to rush to his own defense and deny it, but he realized it was unfortunately true.  “All right, yes, I need a favor.  I need to locate someone.”

“Someone?”

“A demon.”

“Take yer pick, plenty around.  Saw an imp on the way in here.”  He spat.

“Er…I mean, a _specific_ demon.  I’ve already searched through his flat and there’s no sign of where he might have gone.”

“Ah,” said Ezekiel, “some adversary gone and done you wrong and run before you could get to smiting, eh?” He flashed him a toothy smile, or at least a smile that would have been toothy, had he had a decent amount of teeth.

“Er…” said Aziraphale, unsure of how Ezekiel would react to the truth.  “Something like that, I suppose.  Can you help me out?”

“Sure,” said Ezekiel, scratching the ear of his hound.  “Ol’ Cloudy here can track demons halfway across the world on nothin’ but the smell from a year-old sock.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, relieved.  “Are you free to start, then?”

“Now hold on,” said Ezekiel. “I said I _could_ help you, but I never said I _would._  What’s in it for me?”

Aziraphale did not think _The satisfaction of helping a fellow soldier in their mission_ would go over very well.  He tried something he had seen in those films Crowley nagged him to watch, when an intrepid protagonist is trying to enlist the help of some opportunistic and morally ambiguous side character.  “You owe me one, from back in…”  He tried to frantically think of a time when he had done Ezekiel a favor, but came up empty. “I’ll owe you one,” he amended.

Ezekiel was scrutinizing him.  “Owe me one what?”

“You know.  One.”

“One?”

“One.”

“One what?”

“One favor, I suppose.”

“Oh.”  Ezekiel stood, stretched his body, all his joints cracking audibly.  “All right, Aziraphale, let’s get a move on.  Not like I’m doing anything particularly important at the moment. And I could use the exercise.”

* * *

Aziraphale had no idea how he would have explained Ezekiel’s presence to Tanya, so he was glad when she did not show up to question their presence.

Cloudy bolted into the flat as soon as the door was open, snuffling along the floor and prodding everything within reach with great interest.

“Some article of clothing would probably give the best scent,” said Ezekiel.

Aziraphale led them into the bedroom and opened Crowley’s sock drawer.  Ezekiel reached in with one filthy hand, took a handful, and held them so Cloudy could get a good sample.  The dog then stuck its tail straight up and marched out of the room determinedly.

“She’s got the scent!” said Ezekiel.  “Come on!”

* * *

How a dog would be able to track scent through water or the air Aziraphale had no idea, but he supposed that was the supernatural aspect of it.  They had to travel for over a day, eventually ending up in the Far East.  Aziraphale was starting to get tired of all this travel, and he hated listening to Ezekiel’s boring stories.

“I’ll tell you, learned to never do that again,” Ezekiel finally said to conclude his latest tale. Aziraphale hadn’t been paying attention at all, and had no idea what he might be referring to, so he simply nodded. “Looks like we’re getting close,” said Ezekiel, noting that the hound had picked up its pace.

Aziraphale was not surprised by where they eventually found Crowley:  A seedy bar.  He was at the counter, hunched over a shot glass.  There was a succulent plant on the stool next to him, another shot glass in front of it, as though the demon had been ordering rounds for it as well.***

* * *

***He had, and had been pouring them into the soil to water it.

* * *

Cloudy barked as soon as they were inside, and Crowley, prickling with alarm, looked up and saw the two men in the doorway.  He did what any rational being would do upon seeing someone they were sure was dead and someone with sworn loyalty to someone who wanted to kill him:  He bolted for the doorway.

Well, he was piss drunk, so he more _stumbled_ towards the doorway. If you asked him later, he would insist he _bolted_ for the doorway, so let’s let him have his fantasy.

Cloudy weaved through the other patrons’ legs expertly, and Ezekiel shouted and clumsily pushed humans out of the way as the demon reached the back exit.  Aziraphale did the reasonable thing and backed out the front door, circled around, and caught him as he made his retreat.  The sight of him made Crowley pause just long enough for Cloudy to ram into him, snarling and jumping.

“Aha!” said Ezekiel, who tackled him to the dirt, and whom Aziraphale suddenly wished he had told to be gentle with their prey.  “We’ve got you now, ye infernal—”

“Get off me, you bloody lunatic!” Crowley shouted.

“Ezekiel!” Aziraphale yelled, grabbing Crowley’s arm and dragging him out from under the other angel. “Ah, that’s—that’s enough, I’ll take it from here.”

Ezekiel fished his yellow hat off the ground and shook it off.  “There you go, Aziraphale, one demon.”

Crowley was glaring at Ezekiel and the hound, his cheeks inflamed with alcohol and embarrassment.

“Thank you, Ezekiel,” said Aziraphale.  “I can handle it from here.”

“You sure?  I can stick around and—”  Here he performed fisticuffs with the air.  “—if he decides to get uppity.”

“I think that should be quite all right,” said Aziraphale.  “I’ve got some…questions for him, and I think it’d be rather boring for you to stick around for all of them.  Yes, so much interrogation!  It could take hours.  Days, even. It might be dreadful and violent. You’d best get out of here before it starts.”

“All righty, then,” said Ezekiel, tilting his hat.  “If you insist.  But I’m gonna come around and collect my _one_ , later.”

“All right, I’ll have it for you,” said Aziraphale as he moved off.

As soon as he was out of sight, Aziraphale turned towards the demon, who was drunkenly trying to miracle himself sober, and brushed the dirt off his clothes.  “My goodness.  I’m terribly sorry about that.  It was the only way I could think of to find you.”

Crowley was morosely examining a spot where the hound had torn a hole in his slacks.  “Uh…s’all right, suppose….  You’re not dead?”

“I’m not.  I’m not sure why you thought that.”

“I was told you were.”

“My dear, I believe we have been the victim of a cruel prank that has gone on for too long.”

“Oh.”

They both stood there in silence for a moment.

“You’re really not dead?”

Aziraphale patted him on the shoulder.  “I didn’t realize it would upset you that much.  You _do_ care.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Don’t read too much into it, angel. I was just…searching for a new business partner.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well.”  He put his hands in his pockets.  “Shall we go back to London, then?”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale.

As they moved off together, Aziraphale said, “Oh Crowley, I ended up looking through your computer a bit earlier.”

“Oh,” said the demon, picking up his pace a little.

“I saw something really interesting I’d like you to explain to me.”

Crowley was jogging now. “All right,” he said, motoring away at top speed.

“It was in a folder labeled p—Crowley!  Come back here!  You’re not getting away from me until you’ve given me a good explanation! Crowley!  Get back here!”


End file.
